


mother

by theoreticlove



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Mother/Son Bonding, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 11:02:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoreticlove/pseuds/theoreticlove
Summary: fëanáro, newly reborn, has nightmares.





	mother

The house was quiet and dark as Fëanáro slowly made his way to the kitchen, shaking. He didn’t want to wake anyone up, considering it wasn’t his house in the first place. Lady Indis had only let him stay in her home out of love for his father, or so he presumed. That was fine, however. He was only staying there until he and Nerdanel were on good terms again. Ñolofinwë- or, as he now used, Fingolfin, was in the same boat, only Indis likely wanted him around a fair bit more.

Fëanáro reached into the cupboard, taking out a cup. Plastic. He was shaking still, the nightmares that had woken him up still haunting him, and he felt it would be unwise to take something breakable. 

He filled the cup almost to the brim with cold water, relishing the feeling of the cool liquid meeting his lips. Then, he turned the sink back on and splashed his face with cold water.

He could not be warm. He did not want to be anywhere near the heat. Once, fire had meant passion to him. Fire in his marriage, fire in his spirit. Now, it only meant fear. It wasn’t like him, he knew, but Losgar and Gothmog haunted his dreams, the fire never ceding in its unbearable cruelty. 

Light footsteps made their way into the kitchen, and Fëanáro turned to see his step-mother, clad in a housecoat and looking at him with an expression of vague worry. 

“Indis. I... I’m sorry if I woke you,” he said. She shook her head.

“You didn’t wake me. Can’t sleep?” She asked him, making her way into the kitchen.

“No,” he admitted. Before he had died, he probably would have given her a haughty look, one that said ‘how dare you speak to me?’. But he was trying to be a better person. Perhaps being kinder to his step mother would be a step in the right direction. Were Fëanáro’s father alive, he knew what he would say: “I knew you would come around, son.”.

“I think I’m going to make some tea. Would you like some?” Indis offered, taking out a kettle. 

“No, thank you,” he declined. Tea was hot and steaming, two things which he was actively trying to avoid. 

They stood in silence for a moment, Indis boiling water and Fëanáro wishing there was ice in his. It was a comfortable kind of silence, though, and Fëanáro found himself not quite minding Indis’ presence. He knew that the version of himself who had lived through the years of the trees would be appalled, disgusted. The current Fëanáro, however, had realised that he didn’t care very much.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Indis offered suddenly. 

“Talk about what?” He asked, defensive. Old habits died hard, he supposed.

“Your nightmares,” she said flatly, looking at him as she poured her tea into a teacup. It was handmade, one of Arafinwë’s failed attempts at pottery, but still useable. He had had a similar sort of teacup, only it had been Maitimo’s. And his was much prettier.

“Who says I’m having nightmares?”

“You haven’t slept well in a long while, Curufinwë. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Come, sit on the couch with me.”

Fëanáro sighed. He had been caught. And here he was, thinking he had been discreet. He followed her into the sitting room, sitting on the opposite end of the couch from her. He gaped despite himself as she curled up and put her feet on the couch. 

“I thought the Vanyar were all about propriety?” He said. Indis rolled her eyes.

“There is no such thing as propriety in one’s own home, at two in the morning.” 

Despite Past Fëanáro screaming at him, Fëanáro laughed. And the comfortable silence returned. He thought, perhaps, he could get used to living here. Perhaps. As much as he loathed to admit it, Indis was a kind woman. He understood what his father saw in her. 

The windows of the sitting room were massive, and the light of the moon shone in. Outside, Fëanáro could see the outline of a sculpted fountain, could see the leaves of maple trees swaying softly in a gentle breeze. 

He was struck with a sudden longing for his wife, to have her next to him, to be loved by her again. Clearly as day, he remembered sneaking out of the house, running through the rows of trees on the property in the dead of night, the same type of breeze as tonight making his hair fly around. He remembered not caring if he looked a mess, because he knew that Nerdanel would simply laugh at him and pluck any stray leaves out of his hair, before she kissed him. 

He remembers lying on the ground with her, staring up at Varda’s stars and thinking that Nerdanel was undoubtedly more beautiful than any of the Valar’s designs. Laughing with her until he cried. Kissing her freckles. Curling up next to her, comfortable and safe in her arms. 

The breeze outside picked up, wind beginning to howl, like a wolf pup trying to imitate its far more ferocious father, and Fëanáro snapped out of his trance. 

He looked over, and Indis was smiling softly at him.

“Were you thinking of Nerdanel?” She asked gently.

“Yes,” he breathed. Oh, how he missed the love of his life. 

“You know, she’s the one who taught me to make this type of tea.”

“Did she really? She was always good at making tea. Far better than I am, in any case.”

Indis laughed. “It’s one of my favourite teas now.”

Fëanáro smiled. 

“Do you ever think of atto?” He blurted, though for which reason he could not say. Perhaps it was the talk of his own wife that made him wonder.

Indis nodded. “All the time,” she said. 

Perhaps they had more in common now, now that the dust had settled. 

After a few minutes of reacquaintance with silence, Fëanáro yawned. 

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” Indis suggested, setting down her teacup. Fëanáro shook his head. When he closed his eyes for longer than a few seconds, he was enveloped in memories of fire, memories of his death. Sometimes, when his nightmares were terrible, he also dreamed of Mandos. He considered himself grateful that it was not one of those nights. 

“I dream about Losgar,” he mumbled. “And- and Gothmog.”

There was no answer. Losgar had been his greatest mistake. Abandoning Fingolfin was something he would regret for the rest of his life. He could not blame Indis for holding it against him.

But then, an arm wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him close. He leaned into the comfort.

Past Fëanáro raged.

“It must have been scary,” she said. There was something so nurturing, so compassionate and kind in her voice. 

Fëanáro began to cry. 

Indis’ fingers ran through his hair as he sniffled, giving him words of comfort. His breath hitched, as he curled up, his own feet now on the couch. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been a lousy step-son,” he said. Indis laughed softly, reaching down to his face, drying his tears. He smiled.

“I don’t think you’ve been so bad,” she told him. 

Fëanáro yawned, his eyelids suddenly heavy. There was something about Indis. He didn’t want to say it was a mother’s touch. He had his own mother. But somehow, deep down, despite all the hatred and hurtful comments and derisiveness, Fëanáro realised that Indis had become his mother too.

**Author's Note:**

> this is weird but i was writing this and now that i’ve given indis a personality i’ve realised that nerdanel/indis is a quality ship


End file.
